


pastime

by hellhoundsprey



Series: spn kink bingo 2021 [1]
Category: Supernatural RPF
Genre: Age Difference, Alternate Universe - Mob, Bodyguard Jared Padalecki, Bottom Jared Padalecki, COVID 19, Drug Use, Dubious Consent, Isolation, Loneliness, M/M, Power Imbalance, Shower Sex, Top Jensen Ackles, implied/referenced attempted kidnapping, mob heir jensen ackles
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-23
Updated: 2021-01-23
Packaged: 2021-03-15 11:54:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,378
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28938096
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hellhoundsprey/pseuds/hellhoundsprey
Summary: Young master Ackles is a handful, to say the least. (Jensen is 19, Jared is 34.)2021 kink bingo square 15: shower sex
Relationships: Jensen Ackles/Jared Padalecki
Series: spn kink bingo 2021 [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2122431
Comments: 18
Kudos: 105





	pastime

**Author's Note:**

  * For [troubleseeker](https://archiveofourown.org/users/troubleseeker/gifts).



He used to be impatient, way back. When he was younger and time was still valuable. When every moment not spent _doing_ something felt so horribly, painfully wasted.

He’s better, now. _Waiting_ is the biggest part of his job.

Jared tosses the controller into his lap and raises his arms in defeat.

Next to him, Ackles laughs: “You suck.”

“I’ll grab some coffee. You want anything?”

Ackles says he’s good, barely listening, back in the game. Jared makes the short trip out of young master’s room and across the hall. Nearly dinner time; the kitchen buzzes with life.

Spanish accent: “Is _niño_ coming out for dinner tonight?”

Jared admits, “I doubt it,” around an apologetic smile. He ducks into one of the four fridges for his iced americano and excuses himself back to his duties.

“He will go blind eventually!” they say, and Jared thinks that not even glasses could disfigure Ackles’ face (or threaten him enough to leave his new console be).

The tall walls don’t faze him anymore. The marble, the genuine fur. Ackles’ one grand sneakers, forgotten in a corner with the others.

“Hurry it up,” and most days, it feels more like babysitting than—anything else. “C’mon, man!”

Jared drops back into the sofa, his spot. Ackles already picked a new level, upgraded his character. He doesn’t wait for Jared to catch up nor open his coffee, have a sip before he starts the game.

Jared’s not supposed to be competent at this, anyway.

~

“I barely even see him anymore.”

Jared scoffs, nods, smiles. “Yeah. Sony’s got him bad.”

Big boss pouts. Jensen’s more of a momma’s boy, but you can’t deny the parallels here. “Well, he’ll get tired of it eventually. Try to make him do at least…I don’t know, half an hour? Mandarin, if possible?”

“Of course.” Emphasis on that _try_.

Jared collects some snacks in the kitchen. Ackles is right where he left him last night, controller in his hands and everything. Jared puts the snacks down on the crowded coffee table. Ackles grabs a handful without looking.

“Did you even sleep?”

“Who are you, my mom? Shut up and sit down. Check it out, I unlocked this—desert level, I think there’s a secret, a dungeon or sum…”

Young master caves at around two PM. He’s been eyeing that leftover five-hour energy shot for a while now but all he can bring himself to is to rub at his face and groan into his hands. Even youth has its limits.

“It’s not gonna run off or nothing.”

Ackles groans again.

Jared elbows him as gently as possible. “C’mon. Don’t make me say it.”

“All right, all right.” Ackles adds, “Fucking bitch,” under his breath, but he _does_ turn off the TV, so—well, who’s the bitch?

Kid doesn’t bother to strip. His bed is still unmade and he flops down into the mess of it face-first, like a dead fish. Experience shows that Jared will find him in this very position the next morning (aka noon).

Jared ignores the growls he earns for tucking the kid in like he’s five instead of nineteen. Not his job per se to do this (any of this) but Ackles getting flustered is worth it. Keeps the spring in Jared’s step.

Jared orders, “Sleep,” without any force, but he ruffles Ackles’ half-a-grand hair and that gets him a squirm, a slap to his arm. Jared grins, leaves him be.

He settles into one of the club chairs in the corner, by the windows. As he peels his phone out of his pocket, there’s,

“Stay,”

half-dreamed already. Jensen’s head faces away. All Jared sees is dark blond.

One leg thrown over the other, focus on today’s news, Jared soft-tells him, “Of course,” and, “where else would I be?”

~

It’s a lonely lifestyle. He’s made peace with it a long time ago.

Better this way, for sure. No baggage. Enough baggage to claim in this line of work. Li-a-bi-li-ty.

“Do you even _like_ girls?” and there’s always a fight in what leaves that mouth, always a bait. Jared’s used to it. This kind of—hunger. The constant chase for attention. Jared can’t blame the poor kid.

Jared snorts. Keeps it light. Eyes on the screen, thumbs on the joysticks. “What are you trying to say?” (Jensen likes being asked questions, even rhetorical ones.) “Of course I _like_ them.”

“But do you _fuck_ them?”

“I don’t fuck _anyone_ ,” and he looks straight at Ackles for that, and that’s a mistake. But, too late. Back to the screen. Deeper shift into the sofa. “You think I’ve got time for that kind of crap, huh? You see me slipping out, taking a fucking lunch break or something?”

It’s unprofessional (this entire topic, his tone) but Ackles likes it when he is, at times. (Not _constantly_ ; he’s versed enough in how these things go, no matter how socially stunted.)

Finally, Ackles decides, “Fucking monk,” and Jared laughs at him, at that level of lameness.

Such a child, still. In a way. Sheltered and spoiled. Speaks seven languages, sure, but couldn’t operate a dishwasher if his life depended on it. Jared, who profits off this sad situation like a fucking king, can’t get too emotional about any of this.

Joking around, yes. Playing chauffeur and buddy and Dr. Phil, yes. But real emotions, no.

He’s nice yet feisty. Gives Ackles just enough backtalk to keep a sense of _respect_ in the brat. Just enough.

It’s both a goal and a horror that Jensen Ackles might consider them _friends_.

~

The pandemic helps: no more big shopping trips. Indoors, mostly. Ackles’ tan stays solid thanks to the machine in the mansion-intern spa. His face is all blasé, but the freckles help keeping the sight bearable. Childish, alive. Jensen’s face changes as he grows. Jared’s seen pictures—younger, doughier, whereas current young master looks like someone with an obsession chiseled his bone structure by hand.

The first time Ackles says, “Suck me off,” Jared laughs out loud. “What?”

“I—what? What did you just say?” Jared wipes at his eye.

“Did I stutter?” and Jared thinks: you probably didn’t. “Suck my dick.”

Jared’s mouth is still caught in half of that grin. He blinks.

Ackles, one arm draped over the back of the sofa. That controller still in the other hand, knee hiked up; waiting. Fixing Jared with those animal eyes of his, like Jared is—about to make a mistake. And he is, he thinks. He is.

“I,” he says, and, “listen—”

but Jensen ends the argument by putting his controller down.

He takes Jared’s out of Jared’s hands as well.

It’s not like—Jared hasn’t done this before. If only to sate a curiosity, and only once (a couple times, at most). But it’s not—new. And yet. Yet…

Ackles is soft, still, when Jared’s mouth gets to him. It’s awkward, until—well, it’s still very much awkward _then_ , too.

Jared can only think—thank God he’s not a minor.

Ackles mumbles about, “Fuck,” and, “God,” and screws his hips up, holds Jared’s head down. Jared is too shocked to pay attention to any of it. After, he doesn’t know how he didn’t throw up (for multiple reasons).

It stays weird for only a moment longer. Where he is back to sitting upright instead of folded down and aside into that lap, and there’s a wave of—disgust (about himself? About Jensen?) and regret and panic, but. Jensen tosses him the controller, and they pick up the earlier game.

Jared’s nearly forgotten about it for a whole two minutes before Ackles warns, “You’re not getting a raise for that, just so you know.”

~

“Are you serious?” (Jared’s throat feels tight. Feels weak.) “Jesus, wait, _wait_ —”

Ackles’ eyes are wide for both a) being asked to inconvenience himself for someone else and b) the surprise of Jared’s sphincter actually yielding to the dry stupid-pressure of his fucking finger.

Jared keeps babbling, “Don’t,” like he has any right to use that kind of vocab around the Ackles. Like Jensen would actually stop, or listen.

Stupid, letting him drag you into his bed. Just a joke, you two have done this before; like children, rough-housing. (Jensen’s half-siblings haven’t seen him in years now.)

Jared’s slacks are undone but the suspenders keep them in place; the chest holster is—maybe the second-most uncomfortable thing he’s currently subjected to. It presses into his back together with some bombastic thread count and Ackles’ last night’s sweat.

Kid’s looming above, one knee between Jared’s legs, and—stares. Stares, like he’s shocked himself, like he can’t believe that—Jared lets him. Six feet four and black belt and he stifles his complaints now, just lies there and tries to accommodate and not make it worse.

That carefully manicured hand, caught in his underwear. The heel of it rides Jared’s taint, one finger buried to the knuckle and pumping like Jared’s a girl, like he’s easy, and young master Ackles finds his favorite word again:

“Fuck,”

like he’s tender, like he—like he means it.

“You’ll let me,” trembles Ackles. Morning-coarse, and the curtains never opened these past three days. “Fuck, you’ll let me?”

If Jared spoke, he’d ruin it.

So, he reaches out instead, gets the back of Ackles’ neck to pull him down, and that’s—maybe that’s worse, making him kiss him, because the kid startles for it and he even _bucks_ against the iron of Jared’s hand, and—but he does. Kiss him.

A sigh; tight, urgent.

Jared hears something resembling his own voice mumbling, “Lube? Please?” and Jensen’s exhale stumbles hard against his mouth, his chin. Those eyes drift shut as he nods, and—Jared nods, too.

Yeah. Yeah, okay.

Ackles doesn’t get a condom to go with the slick and Jared is too tense (too afraid) to plead with him about it. Should be fine. Has to.

(Always hookers. Random and beautiful and expensive and probably amazing and Jared’s heard them moan from behind the door he’d almost walked in, no warning. Paid and professional and maybe, in a way, this here is the closest Jensen’s been to anything real, and the thought is—God, don’t think. Just don’t.)

“You done this before?” is all he can think of, can get out. Gets his suspenders unclipped, finally, his slacks and underwear yanked down. Ackles moves fast and sure, doesn’t unlace Jared’s dress shoes but simply wrenches them off his feet instead; doesn’t bother to reply. Jared drops his head back, tugs his dress shirt up his stomach to keep it out of the way, keep it unharmed.

Ackles doesn’t waste much time. Shoves his sweatpants down (Jared doesn’t look), up on his knees, between Jared’s legs. Slicks his dick in a couple of strokes and moves in, hooks one of Jared’s legs over his shoulder and just—Jesus, Jesus, oh, _Jesus Christ_.

Jared wants to tell him _slow_ but all he manages is to not buck the kid off completely. That hand comes back to Ackles’ neck to wrench him down, tuck him close, and Jared hears him whimper. Barely-there but real.

Buried too deep too fast and Ackles grinds them closer, still. Jared helps; tips his hips, lifts his ass off the mattress. Young master stutters, wrings his available hand around Jared’s furry thigh and digs his nails in. Jared pets through his hair, around the heat of his soft-soft ears. Ackles’ breath tastes like sleep, still.

The pace picks up quickly. Jared forces himself not to groan, not let Jensen know what he’s doing. But he knows, maybe, because he finally grits, “Fucking _God_ , you’re tight,” but doesn’t stop, doesn’t let Jared breathe around it. Fucks him through it, chases his own pleasure.

Doesn’t help to tell himself to relax, not at all; the kid splits him open, doesn’t care (never learned to). Invasive and too heated, too slick. The solid fucking pole of his dick knocks into the clench of Jared’s ass and pulls him inside-out with it, drags half-honest tears into the corners of Jared’s eyes; he—he never. Never wanted, or did, especially not—God, _Jensen_.

Wrangled, “‘M close,” and Jared bites back a sigh of relief; nods instead, tucks the kid closer instead. Wraps his leg around him, even, to spur him on. Make it quick.

Ackles wet-gulps his breath in the crook of Jared’s neck, against Jared’s stubble, while he slops his dick into him hard enough to make their skin smack in the otherwise silent room.

“I’ll come so hard,” he warns, and, “fuck,” and then, “ _Jared_ ,” and that’s the loudest, and it breaks off at the very end.

Jared waits it out. Doesn’t think.

After a while, when he fears Jensen might just fall asleep on top of him (inside of him), Jared says: “You’re heavy.”

~

He offers, “I could blow you,” and Jensen licks his own lip unrelated to it. Deep in thought, somewhere else.

Jared’s dick fills on instinct with a hand kneading at it over his slacks. Pressing down on it with the sweetest weight, that distinct warmth.

Jensen’s good at it. Jared can’t tell him that.

Jensen decides, “Ride me,” and Jared groans. “Stop complaining. C’mon, up.”

Even as he already hefts himself up, Jared reminds: “I’m sore.”

“So? Walk it off.”

Jared glares.

Jensen shrugs, unzips his jeans. “I’m sorry that my cock is so big.”

“You’re not sorry.”

Jensen snorts. Jared feels him watching as he undoes his slacks, his suspenders. Drops both to the floor before he catches himself—eyes the door.

“We should maybe—uh, lock up.”

“Seriously?”

“Seriously.”

“‘That’s not very safe, sir’,” drawls Jensen, idle on the sofa while Jared stalks to the door, turns the key. “‘I don’t recommend doing that, sir.’”

“Shut up.”

“You never call me that anymore. Take off your shoes.”

Jared does that. Climbs Ackles’ lap, up on his knees. Hears Jensen jacking himself, slow and easy. Jared doesn’t break eye contact on principle even as he wedges two of his own lubed up fingers up his ass.

Young master has that glint in his eye. Like he’s about to ask Jared to go fetch him some more blow, have you ever seen a dog fight before? But he stays quiet, waits.

Until he decides, “That’s enough,” and it’s not, but. Well.

Jared smears the remaining slick on Ackles’ cock before he begins to lower himself. Jensen’s holding it up (so generous) and the fat head of it pillows massive against Jared’s asshole before it pops inside, breaches him almost-easy, and it—it shouldn’t.

Jared’s turn to mutter, “Fuck,” and Jensen puts one hand to his hip when Jared doesn’t sink down as fast as he’d like. A warning, “C-careful,” and he imagines Jensen _is_ being careful, doesn’t tug him down as hard as he could have. It’s such a strain—his ass, his thighs.

“So fucking hot inside,” slurred and happy, balls-deep yet again. Jensen curls his arms around Jared’s waist so he can hold him close, roll his hips. “Like a furnace. For my dick.”

“God, shut up…”

“Call me ‘sir’.”

“Shut up, _sir_.”

Jensen ponders, “Can’t exactly talk if you fuck me good,” and Jared feels him cupping his ass with both hands, spreading his cheeks. Goosebumps for the next half a stroke like that, stretched out and heavy. “Fuck me, come on. Fuck yourself.”

Jared does that. Slow and easy in the hopes that—the kid fucking takes note for next time. Because, if this is—if this is how it _is_ , now, between them, he’s gonna ask for it regularly, isn’t he?

Quiet, “Show me your tits,” and Jared flushes further. Feels his dick flopping heavy with every drop of his hips and lets go of the back of the sofa to loosen his tie, work some his shirt open. (Whatever he asks, just do it, okay? That’s what you’re getting paid for: keeping him alive and out of my way.) “…Hairy.”

“Well. Sorry.”

“‘Sorry, sir.’”

“Sorry, sir.”

Jared doesn’t expect the kid to bury his face in his cleavage. Or those hands to slip up his back, his ribs, where the holster still sits. Jensen’s girl-mouth closes around one of his nipples and _sucks_ , and Jared’s eyes flutter stupid with his curse.

He does his best, but he can’t keep up with Jensen’s apparent needs. His glutes complain about the uncharacteristic exercise and young master Ackles spreads his own knees some more, gets more leverage, thrusts up to meet him, and that’s—that’s, he can manage _that_. Better than being at mercy, no control whatsoever. His own cock swings between them, catches on Jensen’s shirt, Jensen’s stomach. Not only hard but _wet_ , but Jensen doesn’t mind it.

Still suckles on Jared’s nipple until he bites it instead, hard and mean, and Jared’s efforts to get the kid off stumble gloriously when he _doesn’t fucking let go_.

When he finally does (and Jared’s been squirming on his dick for a second too long to go unnoticed), he licks after it, pants, “Fuck me, do it _right_.”

A shuffle; Jensen on his back now, one foot on the floor. Barely any space for Jared to ground his knees, but they make it work with combined effort. Loud, thanks to the slick between them, thanks to the frantic pace Jensen demands. It hurts, in a way, but not as bad as yesterday.

Tight-lipped, “Close,” and Jared appreciates the warning, he does (a clear sign that Jensen will stop doing it eventually). Moves faster, harder; only has to keep this up for another minute, after all. And when Jensen tells him, “Don’t stop,” that makes sense, but

as that hand wraps around Jared’s formerly ignored cock, he fucking _reels_.

His rhythm stumbles for a beat before Jensen slaps up and into him with emphasis, and Jared moans, caught off-guard, and it feels—God, it feels—

Jared’s pelvis stammers through the last couple of thrusts, caught between the heaven of Jensen’s fist and the punishing dig of Jensen’s cock, and finally, Jensen gasps, finally begins to unload with a shiver to his whole body. Squirms underneath Jared’s weight and bucks, tries to fit himself even deeper, ride it out—his hand doesn’t stop, not for a beat.

Jared’s orgasm hits him nearly immediately, shocks him rigid all over. Ackles’ cock keeps churning inside his ass and that’s good, too, all of a sudden; rubs him right and his balls pulse so hard, and he groans, loud.

“Ohmygod…” That hand still works him, draws it out. He shudders, attempts to pull back, escape, but Jensen’s still plugged up in his ass, not going anywhere. “Oh, fuck…stop, _stop_ …!”

A triumphant little noise. That hand finally retreats and Jared dares to blink through his lashes, sees—Jensen, all smug, wiping his sloppy hand on his even sloppier shirt.

He knuckles at his chin, next, because Jared got him all the way up there, too.

Jared states, red-faced: “Jesus.”

“Who’s sore now, huh?”

~

It doesn’t make a lot of sense. Not even within this tiny, batshit crazy microverse Jared calls his job and Jensen calls his life.

Jared picks up his shoe from whichever crevice the kid tossed it to, earlier. He dusts off the leather.

“Y’know, you prolly shouldn’t fuck people twice your age.”

“I fuck whoever I want.”

Young master orders half the Mickey D’s menu. He’s full after two burgers and a couple of fries, though. Jared is still dull with the whiplash of…well, earlier.

Half a burger in his system and he stares at the paper napkin in his hands. The TV is on, as per usual when Jensen eats.

Jared looks over at the kid. Phone, that mountain of food abandoned in front of him.

Jared asks him, “Why now?” Not _why me_ or _what did I do_.

Young master decides, “I’m not talking to you,” without looking up, still, and that’s Jared’s cue to leave him be.

So Jared gets up, and Jared closes the door to Jensen’s room behind himself.

He has no strict hours. With these types of clients, you just figure shit out. Jared’s had forty-eight hours shifts. He’s with the Ackles for at least five minutes a day, if only to check in, get the cold shoulder from that second-oldest.

His apartment is nearby in case they need him. It’s a nice walk off the property, down the hill and into town. A constant summer, always kinda warm. His suit is light but he sweats nevertheless. (Would sweat stark naked, too, though, so it doesn’t matter.)

It’s quiet at his place. AC and the fridge, the neighbors’ TVs.

Jared hangs his suit jacket by the door, loosens his tie, plucks the first couple of buttons of his shirt. A beer from the fridge, ice cold. Maybe he’ll order something. Chinese, Thai.

TV remote in hand ( _Walker_ is on), his ass nearly finishes touching his sofa when his phone begins to ring.

Jared doesn’t sigh. Not really.

Jensen is silent on the other side of the line.

Jared asks, “Are you okay?” and he doesn’t expect an answer. First of the many things you learn about Jensen Ackles is that he won’t give you anything.

Mumbled, muffled, _“Come back?”_

Jared eyes the clock next to his parents’ wedding photo. “I just got here.”

_“So? Come back.”_

“Okay.” Jared puts his beer back, wipes his hair out of his eyes. “Five minutes, all right?”

Jensen hangs up.

~

Jensen is a different kind of beautiful when he’s high out of his mind. He always kind of is. Boss has too many reasons to keep this one off the radar, really.

Loose and red-mouthed and his eyes droop, and Jared thinks—God, how has this kid survived until now? (They grabbed him, threw him in a car—I mean, my men took care of that, but if he’s—y’know, if he gives you a hard time at some point, keep that in mind, would you?) Helpless like a kitten.

Jared feels kinda dumb that he expected that, maybe, with the new turn of events, Jensen would ask to be—well, cuddled? Coddled? But, no. More weed. More games. Jared remains in his spot and just watches.

Time doesn’t mean anything to Ackles: he’s awake or he’s not. The only limit to what he has access to is the current swing of his mood. He tips a cup as he reaches over the table—coke zero spills all over fucking everything, including his new iPhone. Jensen doesn’t even frown. Just plucks few unharmed cannabis buds from the mess and hands them to Jared.

“Hold that,” he mumbles. Jared does.

Kid nods off at around four. Simply droops to the side like a goddamn tree in slow-motion, controller still in his hands, legs crossed underneath himself Indian style. Jared swoops in to keep him from breaking his neck on the armrest. Ackles shoves at him for that, grumbles, “Hey,” like a warning. “Fuck off.”

“I’m not doing anything.”

“Stop _touching_ me.”

“I’m not touching you,” and Jensen does a double-take, frowns at him. Recognizes, maybe, somewhere underneath the high and the sleep deprivation. He then proceeds to wet himself. He doesn’t notice, though.

Attempts to push himself upright, get into bed, maybe, and Jared gets up to help. He repeats, “Jensen,” several times, but young master just pouts, pushes him off, doesn’t understand. Jared gives up. Better in bed than on the couch (or the floor). He’ll have someone change the sheets tomorrow, the mattress cover.

Finally horizontal again, Jensen seems dead to the world within seconds. Jared tugs one of the blankets free to cover him up—still in his pissed-in clothes, face-down.

Jensen’s hand writhes weak, next to his head. Jared squeezes that wrist once before slipping off, into his chair.

Jensen will wake at around nine to complain about the stench in his bed. Jared won’t be an ass about it.

~

“You’re not gonna tell him, right?”

Jared looks up from his phone, right into Ackles’—concerned face.

His brows rise very, very high.

“Tell your dad, my boss, that we fucked?”

“Dude.”

“Are you still high or something?”

Again, “ _Dude_ ,” and Jensen frowns sweet, and his dried-out face wrinkles like paper, and Jared—hell, Jared is getting paid for every minute of this, but sometimes he wonders if it’s worth it. “Just tell me you won’t! It’s not that hard.”

“I won’t.”

“See? Asshole. _Thanks_.” Jared keeps quiet about that last part. Savors it like the treat it is, together with that milky-pale flush around Jensen’s mouth. The nervous fumble of those handsome fingers. Superfluous, “I don’t want anyone to know,” but that tiny added, “just us,” could skin Jared’s entire hand if he even _thought_ of coming close to it.

Ackles coaxes him into the bathroom with him. Had switched out his pants hours ago but the smell still sticks to his skin, of course. He fixes Jared’s eyes as he tugs his sweats down in one smooth movement. Jared proceeds to close the door.

“What do you want?”

“Shower with me.”

“Wash the piss off yourself first and I’ll consider it.”

“Shut up and do as I say,” and Jensen is already stroking himself, is already flushed with it.

Jared struggles for a second before he decides: “Fine.”

Tie, holster, shoes.

“Stop staring.”

Jensen doesn’t.

Suspenders, shirt, bulletproof vest, socks.

Jared brushes his hair out of his face. Half-clears his throat.

Slacks, underwear, watch.

Jensen is still in his pants, his long-sleeve.

Jared steps up to him. Considers the kid who’s got his bare ass propped up against the Jacuzzi, his free hand on the rim, his shoulder popped. The arch to his throat, craning up, towards—Jared. Jared’s mouth.

Jared tells him, “Kid, you stink,” and it’s the nicest thing a person could say about Jensen at any given time, and Jensen knows that. He does.

Jared kisses him on the mouth, all slow and careful. Careful enough that Jensen could pull back this time, if he wanted. Jensen doesn’t.

Jared undresses him like a child and turns on the water. Steps under the stream and lathers some random shower gel. Ackles joins in, fits himself to his side. Tugs at his elbow to signal for—oh. Mouth pursed, offered. Jared pecks a kiss.

Young master Ackles tells him, “What the fuck, you virgin,” but Jared doesn’t give him his tongue before Jensen gives him his, first.

Ackles kisses like he’s drowning. Like nothing else matters.

“Let me fuck you again.” No _please_. No _I’ll get the lube, hold on_.

Jared does the latter, walks back in to—Ackles, stroking himself, sprawled on the stone bench in the ground-level shower of this private bathroom of his. Watching. Waiting.

“You never told me,” hears Jared. “That you got so many.”

“You never asked,” says Jared. In front of Jensen, he uncaps the lube, squints at it. Better be waterproof.

Jensen parts his knees even wider, shuffles his ass down the bench. Demands, “Sit on it,” like this is exactly what Jared is getting paid for. Jared just glares at him through the water still beating down on them, the wet strands of his hair hanging into his eyes, while he sporadically opens himself up. It’s getting easier. (He doesn’t know if he should be happy about that.)

As he moves up the stone bench, Jared realizes that this—won’t work, not with his knees. Jensen tugs at him though and so Jared grants him a first taste of it, sinks down on his held-steady cock and makes him squirm, chase it. The bliss, taking over. Making the brat itch for more.

Jensen looks heartbroken when Jared slips right back off.

“What—don’t…!”

He doesn’t complain about Jared turning on his heels, fitting them together anew, wrong way around. The angle is—different, like this, and Jared doesn’t—hate it entirely. Grunts with the effort it takes to lift himself, drop himself back down. Yeah, waterproof. Good.

Water; Jensen’s unsteady breath. The wet smack of their skin. Jensen’s hands move constantly, map out the tattoos on Jared’s back, his arms. Jared shifts, arms up front so he can hold onto the ledge of the bench, get more momentum. That works.

“I, I can’t,” he admits, though. Shakes already—how do women do this? Sinks down all the way and God that dick goes _deep_. Fat and hard and Jensen rocks his hips to get any friction at all, get off with Jared’s body all snug around him.

He hears, “Hands and knees,” and God, the kid sounds broken already, like they’ve been fucking for—well beyond these two minutes.

The sensation of pulling off of Jensen’s dick is all alien, all ugly. Jared crawls into the spot Jensen left.

Jensen slams into him from behind so immediately and rushedly that Jared can’t mask his yelp. “Jesus fucking—!” He bites back the rest.

Two hands on his hips keep Jared steady, pull him back to meet Ackles’ thrusts, and—God, Jesus, yeah, he liked it better on top. It’s then that Jensen wraps his hand around his dick for him, and that _helps_.

Boy, does it help. “Oh, fuck—!”

“Come on, give it up. Come while you’re getting your ass fucked.”

He would have, even without the bad porn talk.

Ackles doesn’t stop. “God, you get so tight when you do that,” and Jared attempts to catch his breath, somehow, while Jensen keeps on using him, jostling the whole line of his body with the force he uses.

Jensen doesn’t come as quick today. Takes so long that, eventually, Jared has to gesture for a break. He miraculously gets it.

“Jesus,” he pants; groans. Jensen’s hips keep churning while he roams his hands, slips them over the water-slick plane of Jared’s back. “Jesus, kid.”

Young master Ackles lets himself get talked into taking this back to his bed. Jared will get shit for the knee issue, but not now. Kid’s way too pent-up to think beyond any kind of orifice to sink his dick into.

Jared helps him onto his back; toweled dry and clean and the sheets are fresh as they could be. Jared sinks his teeth into Jensen’s lip just to see what will happen, sits back down where Jensen wants him. Gets Jensen’s hands up his ribs, circling until they hug his back, help with his momentum.

This. _This_.

“Can you come again? I want you to come again,” sigh-babbled against Jared’s cheek, the corner of his mouth. Jared groans like the old man Jensen probably thinks he is.

“It’s fine, I’m good.”

“You like it,” not-asks Jensen, and the grip he fastens around Jared’s dick could coax a goddamn corpse back to life. Jared doesn’t want him to notice, but he’s getting stared at like the kid can read his fucking soul. “You like it. My cock up your ass.”

Jared jokes, “It’s okay,” but his voice trembles too much. Tips him off, together with—goddammit, that goddamn _hand_. “Close yet?”

Kid _does_ make him come again. Just a weak dribble across that stomach but Jared’s insides make up for that. Jensen moans out loud for the first time for that. Jared keeps himself quiet with his head buzzing, his teeth grating.

Ackles whimpers, “I’m coming,” and Jared picks up the pace for it, gives it to him good enough that the bed begins to make the faintest of complaints. Jensen meets him choppy, desperate; slaps one hand to the back of Jared’s neck, his traps, claws at him as he gives it up inside Jared.

Jared—watches. Allows himself. The high flush of that entire face in the dimmed darkness (curtains, always), the bright white sheets. The mess of Jensen’s product-free hair, the pink ‘o’ of his mouth.

Jared sits back, gets his knees down. Puts one hand to Jensen’s chest, then the other. Fans out his fingers—so broad, this boy; still growing.

That heart pumps rabbit-quick right below Jared’s palm. Jensen’s ribcage ebbs with his breath. Jensen’s eyes are closed. He hums, still coming down, one hand firm around one of Jared’s wrists.

Jared feels himself smiling. “Good?”

Ackles wrinkles his nose. “Oh my God, shut up.”


End file.
